


Pomegranate Martinis

by crazywineaunt



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bartender Lazar, Bartenders, Disability, Drinking, Established Relationship, Flirting, Hotels, Jewelry, M/M, Modern Era, One Shot, Physical Disability, This is crack, really - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:34:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28140219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazywineaunt/pseuds/crazywineaunt
Summary: its 3 am at the bar and ancel is ready for a night out on the town w his beau. until govart comes along to be an idiot. Lazar's here for the entertainment, he brought drinksmy brain comes up with this shit at 3 am. *shrugs*
Relationships: Ancel/Berenger (Captive Prince)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33





	Pomegranate Martinis

**ANCEL**

Glinting jade eyes track the bartender’s every move, watching closely as he fills up the shaker with ice, citrus vodka, a squeeze of fresh lemon, pomegranate juice, and Grand Marnier. He pours the drink expertly into a perfectly chilled martini glass, finishing it off with a dash of rose water. Sticking a flamed orange peel in the glass, he places it in front of Ancel with more than a little flourish.

“One pomegranate martini, on the house,” the bartender says, winking.

Long fingers wrap around the stem of the glass, lifting it to ruby lips. Ancel takes a tentative sip, mouth curving in an approving smile. The bartender grins and finally turns to his other customers, most important job of the night over and done with.

Ancel hums quietly, coiffed hairdo barely moving as he spins around on the stool, observing the hotel lounge at large as he nurses his martini. Another sip of the positively delightful drink is rudely interrupted by a hand roughly grabbing at his shoulder. The glass in his hand shakes violently, but he doesn’t let a single drop spill. Years of ballet training do come in handy every now and then, even if he’s retired.

He takes his sweet time turning around, coming face to face with two security guards. The one that grabbed him is all up in his face, veins popping in his forehead. The second guard is standing back, face an amusing mix of conflicted emotions. Ancel smirks. New blood, then.

Ancel raises one eyebrow at the guard who grabbed him, before looking down at the meaty hand that’s still gripping his shoulder. The guard frowns in distaste, but lets him go.

“Is there a problem here?”, he asks, voice dripping with sugar. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the bartender whistling a merry tune, wiping down a glass. Ancel wants to roll his eyes, of course Lazar wants a performance.

“Sir, I don’t think –”, the trainee pipes up, only to be silenced as his superior holds a hand up, dark gaze roving over Ancel, from the emerald studded hair, heavy diamond necklace, silk dress, down to his sparkling gold stilettos. His frown grows with each lavish adornment, finally nodding sharply, as if Ancel’s appearance has confirmed some theory of his. Ancel observes him languorously over the sugar-coated rim of his martini as he goes off on him.

“Don’t think you’re fooling me for a second”, the guard snarls, “This is a respectable establishment, and the owner won’t stand for lowlifes like you dirtying its name.”

He continues on, listing the numerous laws that Ancel is breaking simply by existing at this bar, apparently. Ancel listens to each accusation in cool silence, manicured fingernail tapping against the counter, sipping his drink. It really is quite marvellous, he thinks absentmindedly. The fruity notes explode on his tastebuds, all without overpowering the vodka. Lazar has outdone himself this time.

“– coming down to the station with me”, the guard finishes, eyes hard.

Ancel tips the remaining liquid in the glass down his throat, lips parting from the rim with a pop. He doesn’t miss the way the guard’s gaze lingers on his mouth.

“I’d say if the owner of this fine establishment wouldn’t stand for someone here dirtying it’s name, it would be you, Govart.”

The guard – Govart – stares at him, caught off guard. “You – how do you know my name?”

Ancel gives him a pitying look, painted lips curving into a dazzling smile.

“Darling, it’s my job to know,” Ancel says.

“Your _job?_ ”, Govart sputters, incredulity written in every line of his face. “I know your only _job_ is probably to suck – ”

He doesn’t finish, instead grabbing Ancel again and pulling him off his seat. He lets go momentarily, but one second is all it takes for Ancel’s legs to give way beneath him. He collapses to the marble floor, causing more than a few passersby to stop and stare at the scene. Lazar isn’t even pretending to wipe down glasses any more, leaning forward on the counter, head propped in his hands.

Govart is haplessly staring as well, as if he’s never seen a handicapped person before. This time, Ancel does roll his eyes. The younger guard hastily steps forward, offering an arm. Ancel gratefully takes it, heaving himself up and back into his previous perch.

“Ancel! I thought I’d find you here,” a new voice floats over.

Ancel turns around in his seat in the direction of the voice, like a sunflower turning to the sun, expression brightening.

“Took you long enough, Berry”, he says, smirking.

A middle-aged man draws near, brows furrowed in frustration as he attempts to tie the laces of his right sleeve together with one hand. He looks up at Ancel, exasperation and fondness fighting for dominance in his dark eyes.

“You’re the one who insisted on dressing me in this complicated trap”, Berenger gestures at his elaborate indigo coat, embroidered discreetly in burnished gold, “What is this, the medieval ages?” He stops fussing at the laces, and looks up, taking Ancel in properly. He blinks once, twice.

“How are you always ready before me?”, Berenger asks, still looking a bit off balance at Ancel’s dress.

Ancel grins at him, white teeth gleaming in the warm lighting.

“Years of practice, darling.” He tilts his chin up, and Berenger, catching the hint, leans down. They kiss softly, slowly, only breaking apart in respect for the public space they’re in.

Govart and his unfortunate junior watch the entire exchange in stunned silence, cold comprehension dawning on them.

Berry. Berenger. As in, Berenger De Varenne, owner of the very hotel they’re standing in, not to mention countless other businesses all over Vere.

Govart’s face is changing from one interesting shade of purple to the next, while the trainee looks like he wants the polished marble tiles to swallow him up right then and there.

Ancel gestures at Lazar, who nods and bends down, rummaging under the counter and emerging with crutches. He hands them over to Ancel, who takes them graciously and gets up, leaning heavily on the crutches.

“Was hoping for more of a show, Red,” Lazar says. Ancel laughs at that. “Sorry to disappoint, Lazar. Although I think _that_ one”, he points one crutch towards the younger guard. Pallas, if Ancel remembers the guard’s rotation correctly, “will be more than willing to give you a show.”

“Shall we go, then?”, Ancel asks, shooting Berenger a bright smile. Govart can’t seem to keep it in and he surges forward. Berenger looks past Ancel, only now noticing the guards’ presence.

“What’s going on here?”, Berenger asks, frowning in confusion. Ancel smiles predatorily, turning to the guards and shrugging, as if he’s seeing them for the first time tonight.

**PALLAS**

“I don’t know, what _is_ going on here, sirs?”, Ancel asks, eyes wide and innocent. He shifts so his right hand is clasping Berenger’s shoulder. His gem encrusted hand sparkles in the light, catching the second guard’s attention. Pallas hadn’t noticed before, but amid the dizzying array of rings covering his fingers, there’s a plain platinum band.

His eyes travel to Berenger’s hand.

A matching band.

Fuck.

He hurries forward before Govart can say anything possibly even more stupid than he’s already said, grabbing Govart’s arm. Govart squawks, but for once, he stays blessedly silent.

“Nothing, sir. We were just going to our posts,” Pallas says hastily. Govart opens his mouth, but Pallas squeezes his arm in warning. That shuts him up.

Ancel turns to Berenger, “Well, you heard the gentlemen. Come now, or we’ll be well past fashionably late.” He whooshes past them in one fluid motion, somehow graceful even with crutches. Berenger lingers, gaze switching between Pallas and Govart. He’s clearly not convinced, but after a moment, he sighs, nodding to the guards, and follows his husband out into the night.

Govart huffs and stalks off, boots obnoxiously loud in the calm atmosphere of the lounge. Pallas sighs, running a hand through his hair. He’ll have hell to pay for acting out of place later, but it’ll be nothing compared to what would have happened if Govart had done or said something regrettable before.

“Hey, handsome.”

Pallas turns around at the call, the bartender manning the lounge’s bar entering his vision.

The bartender grins at him, gesturing towards a bar stool. Pallas looks at the door that Govart disappeared to, before shrugging and taking the proffered seat.

“What’s with the long face, now?,” the bartender asks.

Pallas groans. “I think you know exactly why.”

The bartender laughs. “What, that you almost arrested world renowned ballet dancer Ancel de Varenne, husband of business tycoon Berenger for almost ten years now, for prostitution?”

Pallas gapes at him, before frowning.

“But what about .. ”, he gestures vaguely.

The bartender grimaces. “Well, _retired_ ballet dancer.”

Pallas groans again, head thudding against the counter. He tries to ignore the following laughter from the bartender.

“There, there. Here, how about a drink on the house to feel better?”

Pallas looks up at that, eyeing the fancy vintages behind the bartender with interest.

The bartender grins wolfishly, holding up a finger. “On one condition though, you give me your name and, if the night goes well, your number.”

Pallas looks at the man appraisingly. He doesn’t look half bad, for a Veretian. Why not?

“Pallas,” he offers, smiling now. Maybe this night won’t be a total disaster.

The bartender winks at him. “Lazar.” He claps his hands together. “Now, what’ll you have.”

Pallas looks at the empty martini glass, strawberry red lipstick staining its sugar coated rim. He shudders.

“Anything but a martini.”


End file.
